


(Not) Alone

by lalaland666 (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Has PTSD (Good Omens), Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gabriel is a dick, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Solitary Confinement, Suicidal Thoughts, Way too many italics, heaven sucks, no betas we fall like angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22768894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lalaland666
Summary: Aziraphale had lost track of the days quite some time ago.He’d been counting the seconds in his head, before. Heaven was always bright, always lit by perpetual sunlight, and the Room was brighter than the rest of Heaven, too, so it made it quite difficult to keep track of… of…Aziraphale had lost track of the days quite some time ago.Aziraphale is punished by being put in solitary confinement. Eventually, Crowley finds out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 649
Collections: Amazing Good Omens, Hurt Aziraphale, Tip Top Stories





	(Not) Alone

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is all I write, apparently. This is my brand now. Aziraphale Whump. Well, I accept it. 
> 
> Another one from the GO Kinkmeme. Short version of the prompt: you know those lovely stories where Aziraphale is punished by Heaven using solitary confinement? That, but _more_ , and he's hiding it from Crowley because he thinks that what Crowley's facing is worse. (Spoiler: it isn't). 
> 
> The full prompt and fill can be found [here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2066777). 
> 
> Please let me know if I missed anything that I should add to the tags– I'd hate to accidentally hurt someone with this. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!!

Aziraphale had lost track of the days quite some time ago. 

He’d been counting the seconds in his head, before. Heaven was always bright, always lit by perpetual sunlight, and The Room was brighter than the rest of Heaven, too, so it made it quite difficult to keep track of… of…

Aziraphale had lost track of the days quite some time ago. 

Seconds. Right. Seconds. He’d been counting seconds, but he’d lost track. Somewhere around ninety-five million, he thought. And that was quite some time ago. Ninety-five million, six hundred and eighty-four thousand– no, six hundred and eighty-six thousand… 

Aziraphale had lost track of the days quite some time ago. 

He blinked. Blinked again. His wrist was aching. He glanced down at it, and blinked again to see it red, the long scratches along it welling up with blood. 

Blood. 

There was blood under his fingernails, too. 

It didn’t last long, here. Nothing did. The Room was of Heavenly make, and was thus perfect and impervious to damage. No matter how many times Aziraphale paced, no matter how hard he banged on the walls, no matter how much blood he spilled onto the floor, the Room remained perfect, unchanged. Clean and white and pure and glowing. 

His eyes hurt quite terribly, if he was being honest. The brightness, the unceasing, unchanging light… It had been… oh, he wasn’t sure how long. It had been a very long time. And yet, his eyes never seemed to have adjusted properly to the near-blinding light. 

Perhaps they never would. Perhaps he would stay here forever, this time, and he would eventually go blind from the light. 

At least it would be different. 

Aziraphale’s wrist throbbed, and he scratched at it, wincing when the motion only exacerbated the pain. But that was alright. Pain was something. It was different, different from the endless, unyielding, unceasing white of the Room, and that was good. It was _excellent_. 

Aziraphale was careful to always pick somewhere new to scratch, whenever he was deposited into the Room. Last time, it had been his ankle, which– he had realised upon release– was rather a mistake, as it made walking through Heaven far more difficult. This was better. Far better. His wrist could be clasped behind his back to hide the way his hands shook, to conceal the dark stains underneath his nails, and the cuffs of his sleeve and jacket were together more than enough to hide the blood. He hadn’t bled through his jacket yet, which meant it was unlikely to happen. 

He would need to replace this shirt, however. When he returned to Earth. 

If he returned to Earth. 

_Don’t be silly,_ Aziraphale chided himself. _You’ve been here longer before, and they’ve always let you go._ At least, Aziraphale assumed he’d been here longer in the past. He wasn’t entirely certain. He’d lost track of the days quite some time ago... _You’re the only angel on Earth at the moment. They won’t keep you here forever._

They wouldn’t, would they? He was meant to lead a platoon, when the War came. And at least they acknowledged that angels needed a little time to recover after being placed in the Room. They wouldn’t leave him in here during the war. He’d need to be let out at least a few days before, to get a grip on himself before they plunged him into battle. 

These things were never entirely set in stone– after all, Her Plans were ineffable, so if Heaven knew the exact timetables that would quite defeat the point, but it was close enough that he could hazard a guess. He’d gone up to Heaven, been sent into the Room, in 1944. Exactly five thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight years after the world began. That meant, if the world was to end after six thousand years, that Aziraphale had only about sixty or so more to wait, before they simply _must_ let him out. 

Sixty years alone in here. Well, it would certainly be unpleasant, but it wasn't the longest he’d ever been locked away. He wondered idly how long it would take for him to scratch his wrist down to the bone. It was the smallest area he'd picked yet… 

Oh, but how he hoped he wouldn’t be here for so very long. If he was, then Crowley… 

Well. He had hardly spoken to Crowley since their fight over the holy water, back in 1862. It had only been a handful of times, and not until after Crowley had come to his rescue at that church in 1941, saving both Aziraphale and his books... 

Aziraphale shoved that thought out of his mind. He knew that what he felt for Crowley was love, of a quite un-angelic variety. He’d been quite unable to deny it, not after that. And… and he’d begun to hope, after Crowley had gone to all that trouble, that perhaps he might… might… 

No. No, it was impossible. Not because Crowley was a incapable of love– Aziraphale was an idiot, of course, but not quite _that_ much of one, he knew full well that demons were still capable of love, regardless of what the Archangels said on the matter– but because Crowley could never possibly love _Aziraphale_. He was too soft, too slow, too useless and dithering and weak. ( _Selfish,_ he chided himself, _worrying so much about yourself and your little sessions in here that you can’t keep it in perspective, can’t recall that what Crowley is facing is ever so much worse_ ). And even if Crowley did feel the same, which was quite likely impossible, it could never be. Not with Heaven and Hell hanging over their heads. Not with Hell’s threats looming, ever-present. 

Not with the Room. 

Oh, how he hoped that the demon wasn’t still upset with him for refusing to hand over the holy water. He hadn’t acted as though he was, apart from that comment in the church that night– he seemed to think that Aziraphale had missed it, but he hadn’t, not even with everything else going on. It did, of course, make sense that Crowley would still be angry. Aziraphale had been horribly selfish, and rather cruel, as well. He’d just… he’d been so _afraid_ , when Crowley had handed him that note, and the possibility of a future without the demon there suddenly yawned before him. 

He could understand the impulse, certainly. There had been times, times like this, times after what had to have been years upon years in the Room, when Aziraphale himself had wished for some way to avoid ever having to return. And, of course, Hell being what it was, it was almost certain that whatever poor Crowley was facing was worse than just a little bit of forced alone-time. After all, Hell was quite known for its ability to torture. Aziraphale could completely understand wanting some sort of insurance should things go, as Crowley had said, “pear-shaped”. 

He had just been so terribly _afraid_. Afraid of losing Crowley, afraid of being the cause of Crowley’s utter obliteration, afraid of what Heaven would do if they found out that he’d given away the most powerful weapon in their arsenal to one of the enemy. 

_Selfish_ , Aziraphale scolded himself, hardly for the first time, nor for the last. _You can’t even imagine the sorts of things he might be going through, and you’d consign him to that with no way to escape just to avoid a century or two in here?_ He was a terrible angel, he knew, and an even worse friend. But, oh, he’d been so _scared_ – 

Just further proof, wasn't it? Of why Crowley could never love Aziraphale. He was soft, and weak, and useless, and a coward to boot. It was quite impossible. 

Aziraphale sighed, scratching at his wrist, wincing. It was something to do. The red blood, the red pain. After all, he'd lost track of the days quite some time ago… 

There was a sound. A _sound_ , from the other side of one of the walls. Aziraphale scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly, spots swimming in front of his eyes at the sudden motion as he clasped his hands together behind his back, ignoring the burning in his wrist. He'd lost track of the days quite some time ago, but no one would care how long he had been in here, he was an angel and he was to act quite reasonable and put-together no matter what had happened in the Room. 

A line appeared in one of the walls. The line turned slowly into a rectangle, which swung inwards, revealing a figure standing there. Aziraphale blinked. Blinked again. The shape wouldn’t quite resolve. 

Not that it mattered. There was only one person it could possibly be. 

“Hey there, Aziraphale,” came the Archangel Gabriel’s voice. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, and he was surprised when his voice came out in a hissing sort of rasp. He cleared his throat. 

“Right,” Gabriel said. “Good news, punishment served, all that. You know the drill by now, yeah?” His face was resolving a little bit now, and Aziraphale could see his grin. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and his voice sounded better this time. 

“You remember why you were in here, yeah? I’d hate to see a repeat, you know. We missed your work down on Earth!” Gabriel said. 

Aziraphale blinked again. Why… why had he…? 

Miracles. Healing miracles. After his rather underwhelming attempts at espionage, Aziraphale had journeyed to the front lines of the war, doling out healing miracles wherever he could to the Allied troops. Heaven had deemed the entire effort a waste of time, and thus his reprimand. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale promised, lying through his teeth. “I’ll be far more careful in future, I assure you.” He never was. Never had been. He knew it, and so did Gabriel. The next time something happened, a war or a plague or anything else that tore the humans apart, Aziraphale would be there to help. 

And then he'd be here. Alone in the empty, cold, white light. In a ten-foot cube of utter and complete nothing. 

“That’s great, buddy,” Gabriel said, clapping Aziraphale on the shoulder, and Aziraphale started– Gabriel hadn’t been that close a second ago, had he? He still shouldn’t have been close enough to touch Aziraphale, and yet– 

Aziraphale shook himself slightly. He was quite imagining things. 

“Shall I head back down to Earth, then?” Aziraphale asked, forcing a smile and praying that it didn’t look more like a grimace. 

“You filled out all the reprimand paperwork already?” Gabriel asked. 

Aziraphale nodded. The pages and pages of paperwork, which all had to be filled in anew each time he was sent to the Room… 

_Worse than the Room itself, that is,_ Aziraphale told himself, and a part of him almost believed it. 

The rest of him just laughed. 

“Then, yeah, head on down,” said Gabriel, grinning and clapping Aziraphale’s shoulder once more. “See you in… a week, I think, for your quarterly check-in, yeah?” 

Aziraphale nodded and smiled– it was a check-in month. That meant it was either January, March, June, or September on Earth. Excellent. That was good information to have. Surely very useful, somehow. Aziraphale clung to it as he followed Gabriel away from the Room, then turned off to head down the escalators, letting his feet carry him– it was best to operate on muscle memory, after a stint long enough in the Room that he’d lost track of the days. His mind tended to go a bit… fuzzy, after it all. 

_I’ll need to get my hands on a newspaper once I get down there_ , Aziraphale thought, his hands still clamped firmly behind his back. His fingers on his right hand were warm and slightly damp with the blood from his wrist, and down below, Aziraphale could see the sights and sounds of London, bustling past. It didn’t seem to be half-bombed to bits any longer, and the front of the office that housed Heaven and Hell was no longer pure white marble, but steel and glass. 

Well. That was interesting. 

Aziraphale reached the bottom of the escalator, then snapped his fingers, teleporting himself directly to his bookshop, a copy of today’s newspaper appearing in his hands. Another thing he’d learnt from experience. The city could be… overwhelming. Especially just after being in the Room. The sounds, the smells, the great, unending vastness of it, and yet the way it all seemed to cram in around him, too, crowding him in… 

It was all too much. 

Aziraphale didn’t bother to sit down, didn’t bother to move at all from the center of the oculus. He just lifted up the newspaper, gripping it tightly in trembling fists. _The Guardian_. The 16th of June, 1953. 

Nine years. 

Aziraphale had lost track at… what, ninety-five million seconds? That was just over three years, wasn’t it? So he’d spent twice that again in there without a clue. 

Well, it was hardly the worst it had ever been. After helping Crowley with all those children on the Ark… 

Aziraphale felt his whole body beginning to tremble, and he stumbled away from the shop’s centre, aiming vaguely for his back room, for the armchair that he knew would be there, which he sank into gratefully, closing his eyes and relishing in the _darkness_ that brought. 

Oh, he hadn’t seen proper darkness in nine years. Apparently. The light in the Room was such that it pierced your eyelids should you try to close your eyes against it, and his hands had hardly been more effective barriers. The light was unrelenting, unending, unyielding. And that was the true proof that he was home– in the Room, even his dreams never got to be this dark. 

The light always pierced them through. 

There was a sound, again, from the front of the shop– a bell jingling, and a door opening and closing, and a voice, a wonderfully, terribly familiar voice. “Angel! Where’d you get to?” 

_Crowley!_ Aziraphale’s heart soared– 

Before it sank. _I’m not ready. I haven’t put myself back together yet. I’m not– I can’t– I can’t, not yet, not– oh, if he sees what a useless wretch I am after something so small, he’ll surely never want to see me again._

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out, forcing his eyes open once more, mortified when the sound came out as more of a croak than a word. He tried again. “Crowley, my dear boy, is that you?” 

“Yes, it’s me!” Crowley called, making his way towards the back room. “Where were you? I couldn’t find you, after you’d gone down into the trenches. What happened?” 

“I– I was–“ Aziraphale couldn’t think of a lie in time, and so the truth came out instead. “I was in Heaven.” 

“For nine years? What’d they have you doing for so long?” Crowley asked. 

_Think, you bloody idiot!_ Aziraphale scolded himself, but he still felt fuzzy, unmoored, wrong, and another half-truth slipped out. “I, um. Paperwork.” 

“Paperwork?” Crowley asked, finally emerging into the back room, and _oh_ , Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of him. Nine years, nine years thinking about (if he was honest with himself) mostly just Crowley, and still, none of his memories managed to do the real thing justice. His flame-red hair, the way it caught even the low, dust-filled light of the shop. The sway of his hips as he sauntered into the room. The line of his jaw, the swooping curve of his neck, the maroon-and-black patterned coat that Aziraphale was nearly certain was more tightly-tailored than just about anything else sold at the time– though, of course, he had been away for nine years, and he had never really been precisely _fashionable_ to begin with. 

Crowley grinned down at Aziraphale, whose useless heart gave another _thump_ at the sight of the demon’s smile. Then his face shifted suddenly to a frown as he sniffed. “It smells like blood in here. Angel, are you hurt?” 

“Just… just bumped my leg,” Aziraphale said quickly, hiding his wrist under the newspaper as best he could without being obvious about it. “I’ve already miracled it fixed. Not to worry.” He had done no such thing, though he did plan to, just as soon as he had his bearings a little bit more. Until then... the pain was grounding. A reminder. _Still here, still here. So long as you can feel pain, you’re still here_. “I, um, I really am quite glad to see you, my dear, but I’m afraid that now is not the best time…” 

“Why not? You doing something, besides reading the paper and bumping your leg?” Crowley asked, arching one eyebrow. 

“I, um, I have some… some things to take care of,” Aziraphale said, which, again, was not entirely a lie. “Could we… perhaps we could go for dinner later this week? I’m sorry, I just, I can’t–“ 

Crowley took a half a step closer, his brow furrowed over his sunglasses. “You alright, angel?” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, forcing a smile. “I’m perfectly lovely, dear. Just… just, I can’t really… can’t really talk right now. I’m sorry. As I said, maybe later this week?” 

“Tuesday night,” Crowley said. “Nine o’clock. I’ll pick you up. Yeah?” 

“That sounds wonderful,” Aziraphale said, smiling once more, and this time it was almost genuine. 

Crowley stood over him, still frowning. “You sure you’re alright?” 

And _oh_ , how Aziraphale suddenly wanted to tell him. 

_Selfish_ , he scolded himself. _How dare you try to burden him with this triviality, when you know he’s been through so much worse. Don’t you even think about it, you worthless excuse for an angel._

Out loud, Aziraphale simply said, “I’m quite positive, my dear. I’ll see you on Tuesday.” Surreptitiously, he glanced at the newspaper. Today was Thursday. Five days ought to be enough to pull himself back together. 

“Right,” Crowley said, obviously unconvinced, but he left, and the shop bell jingled as he closed the door behind him. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes again, welcoming the relief of darkness, feeling that useless burning building up at the corners of his eyes again. He never cried in the Room, not anymore, not after Gabriel had come in earlier than he’d expected once and caught him in the act. He’d been left there for another three days for such a display of weakness and frivolity. Proper angels didn’t cry, after all. Proper angels were stoic. Proper angels were creatures of perfect light and strength. 

Proper angels could spend nine years alone in a room that felt more like a void without breaking down the second they left. 

Aziraphale tossed the newspaper aside and buried his face in his hands, sobs wracking his pathetic, worthless body. His chest _ached_ , and his breath was coming in short, panicked gasps, and he could hear his heart hammering in his ears. All human things. All weaknesses. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be _better_ than this. 

Aziraphale’s hands smelt of blood and ozone, and he stood up shakily and stumbled to the kitchen, thrusting them under the tap, but the water was too hot, too _much_ , the feel of it slipping and sliding over his hands, and he drew them back again with a gasp, cradling them into his chest, curling into a ball on the floor. He tried to shut the water off with a thought, to stop the noise, to block out the overwhelming _sound_ , the people and the vehicles and even the building settling around him, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, and so he pressed his wet hands to his ears and curled up tighter and cried until his own sobs were the only sound he could hear. 

It was always like this, when he got out. Once he got somewhere safe, or, if that took too long, which it often did, once he got somewhere that was simply _too much_ , too many sounds or smells or sights or people, or even just too vast of an empty space after the close quarters of the Room. Every time, Aziraphale broke down, curling in on himself and sobbing until he couldn’t any longer, broken and useless and weak. Then he would peel himself up off the floor, heal whatever injuries he’d caused himself while in the Room– he couldn’t do any miracles whilst inside, of course, if he could just conjure himself whatever he wanted, it would hardly be a punishment at all (at least, that’s what Gabriel claimed)– and set about sealing up the cracks in himself until the next time. 

This time was no different, and by Tuesday, Aziraphale was quite nearly back to normal, though the slight furrow of concern never left Crowley’s face the whole time that they ate. 

### 

The world had failed to end two months ago, and Aziraphale had literally never been happier. 

He and Crowley had sort of... well, it had been less of a _confession_ and more of a _quite literally collapsing against one another the second the door to Crowley's flat closed behind them as six thousand years’ worth of built-up kisses and “I love you”s tried to exorcise themselves in the span of two minutes_ on the night that Armageddon had failed. And then Aziraphale had strode through Hell wearing Crowley’s body, and he’d quite plainly told both Heaven and Hell to leave his demon well enough alone, and they’d gone for lunch at the Ritz, and then to parks and cafés and shops and the bookshop and Crowley's flat and everywhere in between, hardly leaving each other's sides for even a moment, and everything was _perfect_. 

Today, they were going to a museum. The British Museum, as a matter of fact. It was hosting a new exhibit, a 360-degree movie purporting to depict _The Evolution of Humanity Through the Centuries_ , and Crowley had insisted upon procuring them tickets. 

"It'll be _hilarious_ ," he'd insisted. "We can laugh at all the things they got wrong. C'mon, angel, trust me, it'll be worth the trip." 

And so, here they were, standing in a queue outside of a series of small rooms. Aziraphale felt something in his stomach clench at the sight of the guest in front of them stepping through the door alone (apparently, large groups blocked the view of the screen, and the museum was thus sending each party in individually), but he ignored it. He was quite good at ignoring things like that. 

"You ready, angel?" Crowley asked, squeezing Aziraphale's hand gently. 

Aziraphale smiled up at him, squeezing the demon's hand back. "Ready for this to be over, I think. You promised me lunch afterwards, and I intend to hold you to that. Sushi, remember?" 

"I know, I know," Crowley said, grinning. "I thought you wanted French food today?" 

"Well, I did," Aziraphale admitted. "I changed my mind." 

"Again. What is this, the third time?" 

"Hush, you." 

"Sirs," came the worker's voice. "Right through here." He gestured them through one of the doorways, and Aziraphale let go of Crowley's hand again as they stepped inside. 

The room was relatively small– a ten foot cube, Aziraphale thought, and a shiver ran up his spine, though he shoved it down– and the only light at present came from the doorway. 

"Best view's from the centre of the room," the worker said. "It'll get real bright in a second, so shield your eyes, yeah?" 

The worker closed the door with a soft _click_ , and the room was plunged into darkness. 

Then there was light, nothing but light, bright and stabbing, shining out from all of the walls. The room was illuminated in an omnipresent white glow, just barely too bright for one's eyes to adjust to. There was nothing in it, nothing but light, four walls and a ceiling and a floor and endless, expansive, perfect white, and Aziraphale's breath hissed in, and he squeezed his eyes shut, and he felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as his count started up in his head– _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ – 

"Angel?" Crowley's voice. _Eight, nine, ten._ _Crowley's_ voice. Was it so bad already? _Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen._ It had only been seconds, not even a minute– 

Crowley again. "Angel." _Sixteen, seventeen._ His eyelids were useless against the endless, flooding light, but Aziraphale kept his eyes closed anyways. _Eighteen, nineteen, twenty._ Crowley's voice again, impossibly close, impossibly clear. "Angel, what's wrong? What–" 

A hand. A hand touched Aziraphale's, and his eyes flew open, and he jerked his hand away from the illusion– 

It wasn't an illusion. Or, at least, if it was, it was a startlingly complete one. Crowley was there, beside him, somehow inside the Room, and, oh, how did Crowley get here, how could Crowley be facing this too, what– 

The count. Aziraphale had lost the count. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, he'd barely made it to twenty seconds, he couldn't have lost it _already_ , he really was a useless, pathetic idiot, how could he– 

"Angel, hand on, please, _what's wrong_? What's going on? What can I–" 

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale gasped out, the words spilling out of his mouth quite without his permission. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry, please, let me out let me out letmeoutletmeoutletmeout _letmeout_ –" 

Crowley reached out, grabbed Aziraphale's hand again, and snapped his fingers, and then the Room was gone– no, _they_ were gone, they were in the bookshop, how had he done that, Aziraphale had never been able to– well, that was it, wasn't it? It was Aziraphale. Aziraphale was the problem. He was always the problem, the gum in the works, the issue to be taken care of, and here, too, with the miracles. It was just _Aziraphale_ who they'd needed to put miracle blocks up for. 

Aziraphale registered distantly that he was a couple of steps away from his armchair, but he couldn't seem to will his legs to move. Couldn't even seem to keep himself upright. He sank, slowly, to the floor, curling himself inwards. 

There was no pain. 

How odd. 

"Angel," Crowley said again. "Will you– what _happened_? What was that? Are you– are you alright?" 

Aziraphale nodded shakily, struggling to wrest back control of himself. He needed… he needed to be alone. Needed a moment. He could feel the tears prickling his eyes, the knot forming in his throat, the sobs building in his chest, and Crowley couldn't be here when he broke. It was so small, so stupid, such a silly thing to be breaking down over, and surely compared to what Crowley had suffered… 

Sucking in a shaking, quavering breath, Aziraphale said, "I– I'm alright. I just… I just need a moment…" 

"Whatever you need," Crowley confirmed, and then he– no, he dropped to his knees beside Aziraphale, and that was entirely counterproductive. "What can– is there anything you need? Anything I can do?" 

"Just– I just need a moment–" Aziraphale choked out, squeezing his eyes shut– darkness, beautiful darkness, none of that piercing, blinding, aching light. "Crowley, _please_ –" 

And then the dam broke, and Aziraphale was sobbing, curling in on himself and pressing his hands against his eyes, desperately wrestling against the tears. No. No. He couldn't. He was stronger than this, he was _better_ than this. 

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale gasped. "I'm sorry, Crowley, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry–" 

"Nonono, don't be sorry, angel, don't be sorry," Crowley said, still right beside Aziraphale, and that knowledge was like a punch to the gut. He was _seeing_ this. He was seeing the part of Aziraphale that was weak and useless and cowardly and broken, the part he'd tried so hard for so long to hide, the part that he was _sure_ would finally be enough to turn the demon away, and, oh, just after they'd finally been free– 

After several long, painful minutes, Aziraphale's wracking sobs eased into quiet tears and hitching breaths, and he looked up slowly, half expecting Crowley to be gone. 

He wasn't. He was still kneeling beside Aziraphale, his glasses discarded, an entirely inscrutable expression on his face. 

"Angel…" he breathed. "Are you… are you alright?" 

"Yes," Aziraphale said, and he _was_ , he would be alright, he would be _better_ than this. "I'm terribly sorry, Crowley, I didn't mean– I'm sorry. I– do you still want to get some lunch? I'm so very sorry I caused us to miss that exhibit, I know how excited you were–" 

"Hang on, hang on," Crowley said. "Wait. Angel, wait. What the– what _was_ that?" 

Aziraphale flinched, curling back in on himself, his hands squeezing into his chest. "I'm sorry, Crowley, I didn't mean to– I promise, I can be better than that, I'm sorry–" 

"Shit, no, don't apologize, don't be sorry," Crowley said, reaching out. "What _happened_? Can you tell me what happened?" 

Aziraphale flinched again. "It's… it's stupid, I'm sorry, it's nothing, I promise, compared to what you've suffered, I just– I'm sorry–" 

"It's obviously not _nothing_ if it made you have a breakdown out of nowhere," Crowley snapped. 

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale breathed, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry–" 

"Shit, nonono, _I'm_ sorry, I shouldn't have– angel, _please_ – was it something I did? Did I– do you– what–" 

Aziraphale shook his head, still not quite ready to open his eyes again, and not just because of the tears building in them again. "No. No, it wasn't… it wasn't anything you did. Nothing… it was nothing, Crowley." 

"Aziraphale, _please_ ," Crowley pleaded. 

That was enough to break Aziraphale's torn and tattered resolve completely. "The… the exhibit. The light. It was… my reprimands, it was like… like I said, it's stupid, I'm sorry–" 

But Crowley had gone suddenly still, and when Aziraphale dared to glance up at him, Crowley's eyes were narrowed and snakey. "Your reprimands? You mean, from Heaven?" 

Aziraphale nodded. "It was… there was a room. _The_ Room. It was… it was a lot like that exhibit, actually. A cube, ten feet in each direction. Not quite big enough to spread my wings, when I tried, and if I brought them out, I couldn't seem to put them back again afterwards. It was… it was always cold in there. Just cold enough that it sort of… seeped into your skin, and you couldn't shake it. And it was bright. Always just a little too bright for your eyes to adjust." 

Crowley hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked. "They put you in there?" 

Aziraphale nodded. 

"How often? How long?" 

"Just when… when I defied orders, or… or messed up on something major. The Ark, the Second World War, the AIDS crisis. A few dozen other times, I think. I'm not… not sure, exactly." 

"How long? How long would they leave you in there?" Crowley demanded. 

"For… well, it depended. The World War was… nine years, I think. Yes. Nine years. Not too bad. The Ark was about seventy." He shuddered slightly at that. He'd skinned nearly his entire stomach with scratches by the time he'd been let out. 

" _Shit_ ," Crowley breathed. "Holy shit, angel." 

"I know," Aziraphale said, staring resolutely down at his hands, twisting together wildly in his lap. "It– it must seem like absolutely nothing compared to what you've been through, and I– you know, I don't mean to– I know it's foolish to break down over something like this–" 

"Nothing compared– _foolish_ – angel!" Crowley said. 

Aziraphale flinched back again. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Crowley–" 

"Don't be sorry, angel, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for," Crowley said. "Angel, can I– d'you want–" 

Aziraphale looked up to see that Crowley was– was holding his arms open. Inviting Aziraphale in. Even after watching _that_ … 

And, because Aziraphale was weak and selfish and he wanted nothing more than for Crowley to hold him, and kiss him, and remind him that he was here and real and safe, he went. 

Crowley let out a soft, almost _relieved_ , sound, pulling Aziraphale onto his lap and wrapping him up in his arms. One hand found the base of Aziraphale's head and tangled gently in the cloud-white curls there, encouraging him to rest his head against Crowley's chest, and Aziraphale complied, of course he did, how could he not? 

"Right," Crowley said once they were settled, half speaking into Aziraphale's hair. "Let's clear up a few things, yeah? You have _nothing to be sorry for_. 'Kay? What _Heaven_ –" he spat the word out like a curse– "did to you was not your fault. And it was fucked up." 

"But…" Aziraphale breathed. "But Hell…" 

"That's the other thing," Crowley said. "I don't know where you got the idea that Hell was doing something _worse_ than _seventy bloody years_ of solitary in a plain white room–" He cut himself off, took a deep breath, then pushed on. "In Hell, if you get too mouthy or what have you, your boss might smack you around a bit. Maybe, if you really piss someone off, you'll get dragged off to one of the torture pits for a week or so. But that was as bad as it ever got. It was… torturing demons isn't really all too profitable, yeah? They needed everyone working, and it's hard to work if you're being tortured. I was never pulled down into the Pits, myself. I spent too much time up here. Wasn't worth the effort. Worst I ever got was Hastur slapping me a couple of times for calling him an idiot. Worth it, by the way." He shifted, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale's hair. "You– what Heaven did to you– holy _shit_ , angel. How did you– how did you manage– I can't believe you survived that." 

Aziraphale shuddered slightly. "It wasn't… it was never an option." 

"What?" 

"Not… not surviving," Aziraphale said. "It was never really... I didn't have a choice. There was… if I'd discorporated myself, I'd just have been sent back into the Room, but without a body to keep me… grounded, I suppose. And… and anything more permanent… there was no way to do it. Just hellfire. And there was no way for me to get that. I never bothered trying." 

Crowley was silent for a long, long moment, running his fingers gently through the curls at the nape of Aziraphale's neck. 

"The holy water," he said eventually, his voice so quiet that, even pressed against him as he was, Aziraphale could barely hear him. "That's why you thought it was a suicide pill. Because that's how you would have used it." 

Aziraphale didn't respond. He didn't have to. 

Crowley pulled Aziraphale closer, held him tighter. "I swear to you, angel, I never wanted it for anything but what I used it for. I never– I never even _thought_ – shit, angel, I'm so sorry." 

Aziraphale shook his head. "Not your fault. I was just… I was being stupid. I'm sorry. I'm–" 

"No, don't be sorry, angel, like I said, this wasn't your fault. I should've realised– you said you… the Flood. Did they ever– before that–?" 

Aziraphale nodded. "The first… just after the Garden. For… for lack of vigilance. For letting you tempt Eve. That one… it was only a year, that time, but…" He hadn't known to count the seconds yet. Hadn't known how to ground himself in the pain. He'd nearly lost his mind in there. 

"Bloody… bloody _something_ , Aziraphale," Crowley breathed, clutching Aziraphale tighter. "That's… they were torturing you. You realise that, right? That's torture. Humans will start to go insane after just three months of it, and you were in there…" 

"But I'm _not_ human," Aziraphale said. "I should– I should have been stronger than that. I shouldn't have– I was fine, completely fine, nobody else ever hurt me, I always– I always walked in there myself, I signed the paperwork every time, I was– I should have been stronger, should have been _better_ –" 

"You were the best, angel," said Crowley. "Are the best. Yeah, we're not human, but we're– I figure we're close enough, yeah? Got human bodies and all, and I think we've spent enough time down here that we've started picking up other things, too. Right? You keep saying that you should have been stronger, but… _fuck_ , angel, I can't bloody believe how strong you are. That you… that you survived all of that. It's fucking incredible." 

Aziraphale let out a small huff of laughter that sounded hollow even to his ears. "Well. Like I said. I didn't really have much choice in the matter." 

Crowley tugged him closer again, and Aziraphale fisted his hands in Crowley's shirt, clinging on. So long as Crowley was willing to do this, to hold him, to comfort him, Aziraphale could hardly refuse. 

When Crowley spoke again, his voice was low and quiet. "If… if you'd had a choice. If you'd had hellfire. Would you… would you have…?" 

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, curling in tighter, pressing himself against Crowley's chest. "I don't… I don't know. I don't know. I… maybe. It's possible." He remembered the void, the despair as the seconds ticked by endlessly, the spike of terror each time he lost count… the waiting, waiting, endless waiting, with nothing to do but scratch holes into his own skin just to see the blood well up, just to see something, _anything_ that wasn't endless, piercing white light… "I very well might have." 

" _Fuck_ ," Crowley swore again, burying his face in Aziraphale's hair. "Don't. Please, angel, don't. Don't leave me. Don't do that, please, _please_ don't leave me." 

"I won't," Aziraphale said. "I won't, Crowley, I promise. I promise, I can… I can do better, for you. Be better. I'll do my best, I swear. I'll be better." 

"I don't want you to do anything but just be _you_ ," Crowley said, kissing the top of Aziraphale's head ever so gently. "Nothing else. Okay? I love you. Always. No matter what. I promise, I'm gonna be here. I'm here. I've got you now, yeah? We'll… we'll find some way to make it okay. We'll help you get better. Together." 

"What if… what if it never gets better?" Aziraphale asked softly, almost afraid to hear the answer. "What if I'm… what if I'm broken forever? What if… what if we're doing something else, and– and something like today happens again? What if– I– before, before Armageddon, I only ever slept when I was in the Room, and now– every time I sleep, I dream that– that I'm back. That I'm in there again, waiting, just _waiting_ – it's why I never, when you're sleeping, why I never join you. What if that never gets better? What if I– what if _I_ never get better? What if I really am just broken and weak and useless and–" 

"Hey, hey, hey," Crowley said, shushing Aziraphale gently, kissing his head again. "You're not broken, or useless, or weak, or any of the other lies that Heaven told you. Okay? You're fucking _amazing_ , Aziraphale. You're so strong. You stopped the bloody apocalypse, remember?" 

"I think that was mostly Adam and his friends." 

"You helped," Crowley said. "Listen, angel. I love you, and I will love you forever. And if loving you means helping you through this, then I am bloody honoured that I get to do that. Okay? And, yeah, we... we might be dealing with this forever. I don't… I don't really know how this sort of thing works. But… I mean, I still have nightmares about my Fall, and I've had six thousand bloody years to process that. You've had… what, two months of being free? Two months without having to worry that messing up or being _too bloody kind_ is gonna get you tossed in a bloody sensory deprivation room. This is probably gonna take time. I know that. And that's _okay_. I want to be here through all of it. I want to help you. Please, angel, let me help you with this. Let me help you heal." 

Aziraphale lifted his head to meet Crowley's golden eyes. They were earnest, and gorgeous, and glittering ever so slightly with unshed tears in the dim light of the bookshop. 

Slowly, carefully, Aziraphale reached up and drew Crowley down into a kiss, soft and gentle and warm. 

"Yes," he breathed, once they'd broken apart. "Yes, Crowley, if you… I… if I apologise, will you just tell me not to?" 

"Probably," Crowley admitted. 

"Then I suppose I won't bother," Aziraphale said. "I love you, Crowley. And I… if you're quite certain that you don't mind…" 

"Listen, angel, if you're willing to put up with my plants and my driving and my demon-ing, the least I can do in return is help you with this," Crowley said. "I don't mind. I _want_ to help you. I love you. And that includes the parts of you that are scared and hurting. That's the point of our side, isn't it? Not being perfect, but loving each other anyways." 

Aziraphale nodded, tears filling his eyes once more, before drawing Crowley into another soft kiss. "Our side. The good and the bad. I love you, Crowley." 

"I love you, too," Crowley said, kissing him back. "Forever. I _promise_." 

They stayed there for another long moment, just holding one another, being together, and slowly, the knot of panic in Aziraphale's chest began to loosen. It wasn't gone, not by a long shot, and it might never be. But for now, it was enough. 

Aziraphale drew back slightly and said, softly, "I… I do think I might still like to get that sushi, dearest. If… if you're amenable?" 

Crowley laughed, kissing Aziraphale's forehead gently before unfolding himself out from under the angel and offering a hand. "I'm _amenable_. Sushi for sure, then? Not back to French food? Oh, what about Italian? Or I heard there was a new Indian place just opened up near mine, too–" 

"Oh, hush, you," Aziraphale said, letting himself be pulled back to his feet and out towards the Bentley, which seemed to have quite obediently parked herself outside of the bookshop despite most definitely having been left behind at the museum after their rather abrupt exit. 

Perhaps Crowley was right. Perhaps he oughtn't bear this alone anymore. _Our own side_. All of them, together forever, even the parts they would both rather forget. 

_And perhaps that's not so bad, after all,_ Aziraphale thought as the Bentley started up, tearing away from the curb with a squeal that really ought to have been alarming in any other car. And as Crowley drove, his hand found Aziraphale's, squeezing it gently. A reminder. A promise. 

"I love you, my dearest," Aziraphale said. 

Crowley grinned, glancing over only for a second. "I love you, too, angel. No matter what." 

And, stunningly, Aziraphale believed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys for reading, and I hope you liked this mess!! I live for your comments and kudos and cherish every one, so an extra thanks to anyone who leaves them!!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [where did everybody go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901370) by [lalaland666 (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lalaland666)




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